Draven's office was a symphony of controlled chaos, every element of the space a testament to precision and intellect. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tomes both ancient and modern, their spines adorned with gold and silver glyphs that glimmered faintly in the low light. Floating above his desk, notes and diagrams twisted and turned, manipulated by invisible hands. Chalk etched formulas on a nearby board, while grading sheets aligned themselves into neat stacks, each marked by a hovering quill.
At the center of it all sat Draven, this is his professor clone, his sharp gaze flickering between the floating objects as his mind orchestrated the scene. His pens moved with a rhythm all their own, scratching notes and drawing intricate magical circles that faded and reappeared as he tested theories. The room hummed softly with the energy of his psychokinesis, a constant undercurrent of motion that seemed alive.
